


The Price of Victory

by ayumie



Series: The Price of Victory [1]
Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Movie, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayumie/pseuds/ayumie
Summary: Adhemar may have lost, but he is still marrying Jocelyn. Unless his demands are met. William never could resist a challenge.





	The Price of Victory

Beloved, 

My father accepted Adhemar’s suit. I am to marry him six weeks from now. I cannot refuse. I cannot see you again. My aunt has been sent to watch me. I love you. I will always love you. Nothing they do to me can change that. 

Forgive me. 

Jocelyn.

***

For two days William raged. For two days his friends hardly dared to approach him. And really, there was nothing to say. They knew Jocelyn, if not as well as Will, well enough to know that for all her pretty words about pigs and hovels, she wasn’t meant for a life of hardship. Jocelyn wouldn’t resist her family.   
And William didn’t have the means to ask for her hand, even if her father could be persuaded to retract the promise made to Adhemar. A marriage took land, wealth, connections. All William had was a reputation for jousting, pretty baubles that bought food, clothes and weapons for him and his men, and the esteem of the Black Prince of Wales. Not enough to make a successful match, much less with a lady of Jocelyn’s standing.

Adhemar knew. He had watched her rush into William's arms and kiss him right there in the lists – and still he wanted to marry her. Adhemar didn’t love her. Adhemar didn’t love anything. This was revenge. Defeated or not, he was going to have the woman and he was going to make her pay.   
William remembered the way those cold green eyes had looked at Jocelyn. Revenge on both of them – that was what Adhemar wanted. Perhaps there was a way after all. He had lost for Jocelyn before. 

 

William rose and put on fresh clothes. He stared at Chaucer who finally, reluctantly, admitted to knowing that Adhemar had returned to his lands to deal with the fallout of his last campaign. Wat was the only one who tried to stop him as he tore out of the tent.

Three days later Adhemar's castle loomed in front of William. Its massive dark walls were visible from miles away, dominating the countryside. William's hands tightened on the reins.  
Since he had left London, all he had been thinking about was Jocelyn and the knowledge that there was still one chance to stop this marriage: Adhemar had to withdraw his offer. It was a desperate wager, supported only by the suspicion that Adhemar hated William more than he wanted Jocelyn.

William attacked the matter in the only way he knew how: head-on. The drawbridge was lowered and, passing through a narrow arc between two bulky towers, he found himself in a steep court. Even as a squire rushed to take the reins of his horse, a liveried servant asked for his name and concern.   
In an attempt to combat the sinking feeling in his stomach, William looked around. The whole complex exuded an air of studied industriousness. Nobody was loitering, no one stopped to talk to him – and nobody would meet his eyes.  
All too soon he was escorted out of the sunlit court and admitted to a narrow staircase. After a steep ascend, William's guide knocked at a door and stood aside, gesturing for him to enter.

Adhemar was standing at the window. At the sound of footsteps he turned, raising an eyebrow at William’s travel-stained clothes. For the first time since he had taken up the trappings of a knight, William felt at a disadvantage.   
It wasn't just what he had come here to do. This was a man who, in his own lands, ruled with what amounted to absolute power, a man accustomed to commanding armies and winning battles. At the tournaments, none of this had seemed to matter. There, he knew his worth. But this was Adhemar’s world.

“To what do I owe the honour … Sir Thatcher?”

William refused to rise to the jibe. There was too much at stake.

“Jocelyn.”

“Ah. The lovely Jocelyn. I take it you have come to offer your opinion on my wedding?”

“Jocelyn doesn’t love you.”

“I gathered as much. Fortunately her father feels differently. I am sure once she has resigned herself to the inevitable, she will find that there are certain benefits to being my wife.”

For a moment William didn’t know what to say.

“Is there anything else? No threats? No accusations? I must confess, I am almost disappointed.”

Slowly, in a low voice: “Why do you want to marry her?”

“A man needs an heir – if he has anything to bequeath, that is.”

“Why Jocelyn?”

“She is the best. And I won’t settle for anything less.”

“What would it take to make you consider somebody else?”

“Pardon me?”

“What would it take to make you call off the wedding? You could find another bride – somebody just as good. Somebody not Jocelyn. And I would lose to you. At the next tournament. At every tournament.”

For a moment Adhemar hesitated. Then, as though gripped by a sudden fury, he brought his hand down on the windowsill, hard.

“No.”

Williams shoulders sagged. What was the use of changing his stars, when the one that meant the most to him was out of his reach?

“Isn’t there anything you want…”

Slowly, very slowly, Adhemar turned to face William fully. His eyes narrowed, sharpened. He did want. He wanted to smash his fist into that pretty face. He wanted to rip off those dusty clothes to see what it was that everybody else was seeing, that was so much more than a mere peasant boy. He wanted to master William Thatcher as surely he was meant to.

Even back at that faraway tournament in Rouen, one glance had been enough to tell him that this adversary bore watching. Of course back then he had thought Ulrich von Lichtenstein a landless knight, somebody’s poor relation out to make a name for himself. It had been a devastating blow to learn that the foe he had come to – not fear, surely not that...  
But he had respected Sir Ulrich, let himself be drawn into a private tournament, with Jocelyn acting as price and referee. It had been most upsetting to find out that he had been wasting his time and efforts on defeating a mere peasant boy.   
Not a knight. It was still hard to believe. How dare the boy – how dare a thatcher’s son – be everything he wasn’t supposed to be? How dare he make a count of Anjou feel less?

Adhemar smiled. He would have his revenge, teach the boy his place. And then, perhaps, he would be able to forget. Noting the growing tension in William's body, Adhemar took a step forward. The headiness of near certain victory was suffusing his blood. Had there been any of his servants around, a look at his face would have been enough to send them running. 

William didn’t move as Adhemar drew closer, didn’t flinch even as the other man's hand came to rest on his shoulder, thumb grazing the hollow of his throat. Expecting another of those rib-shattering blows, he steeled himself. But no violence was forthcoming. Instead Adhemar gripped the collar of his shirt and jerked it down his shoulder. The wound the unblunted lance had left was half-healed, red and painful. William gritted his teeth. Let the bastard look at his handiwork.

Abruptly Adhemar stepped back. 

“You look like you’ve been dragged here by my horse. You’ll want to eat, rest – wash. I’ll be expecting you in my room tonight. If you still wish to impose on my hospitality, that is.”

And William understood. 

A servant seemed to materialize out of nowhere, tugging at his sleeve until he stumbled back and out of the door. William’s mind was reeling. He had thought that he had seen the worst Adhemar was capable of, but this…   
He shuddered. He couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. Only, Jocelyn. If he were to leave, she’d be the one to pay. God, what had he done? He should have never come here, should have never expected Adhemar of all people to … what? To behave honourably? Hardly. To strike a fair bargain with a peasant.   
Jocelyn. He couldn’t leave. He’d never be able to hold up his head again. What kind of a knight would he be, if he turned his back on his lady's peril?   
Incapable of coherent thought, William barely realized what was happening. There was food, cold water and far too little time to think. He dressed himself with trembling fingers, putting on wool and fine linen, clothes that weren't his own. One of the servants pressed wine at him and William drank deeply, gratefully. Almost against his will, he found himself wondering what it would be like. 

All too soon he was standing in front of yet another door, knowing without doubt that beyond, madness was waiting. William took a deep breath and stepped inside. A fire had been built in the fireplace and the hangings of the massive, carved bed were tied back, waiting. The door clicked shut.   
Adhemar was looking at him, cool green eyes wandering up and down his body. Even though heat was rising in his face, William held his ground. He had never known when to run. Slowly, deliberately Adhemar rose and circled him. The kiss came as a surprise.   
It was all sensory impressions: Calloused fingers digging into the back of William's neck, lips and tongue and teeth and the slow burn of stubbles. There had been Jocelyn and before her the village girls he had met at the tournaments. None of it had been like this. None of them had ever taken his mouth like an enemy city, held him in place even as a large hand cupped his crotch and squeezed hard enough to drag a whimper from his throat.

William stumbled as he was released. He clenched his fists, blood pounding in his ears as he struggled for composure.

“Did you have her?”

He didn't say anything. Adhemar grasped his chin and forced him to look up.

“You are going to answer me.”

“We made love.”

A nod, as though that answer had been expected.

“Very well. Now strip.”

It – all of it – was so strange, he obeyed. Fresh pain lanced through William’s shoulder as he pulled his shirt over his head. He held his head high as he stepped out of his pants.

“On the bed.”

There was no denying that William Thatcher was beautiful. Adhemar had fucked boys before – mostly nameless, faceless strangers that had caught his fancy in the field – but this was something else altogether. This was victory in the guise of long limbs and golden skin, made all the sweeter by the reaction his kiss had elicited. He stepped out of his boots and kicked them aside. He had been waiting too long.  
A pitcher of wine was sitting beside the bed. Swirling his fingers through the dark liquid, Adhemar looked at the body spread out in front of him. It seemed only natural to reach out and touch, to trace those pretty lips and leave them wet and red. William shivered as wine pooled in his navel, lurid pink smears adorning his throat and chest. The scent of cloves was heavy in the air.

“I have thought about hurting you,” Adhemar said conversationally, fingertips hovering above the half healed wound on William's shoulder. “I was going to whip you bloody.”

William thought that a whipping would have been easier to take. He wanted to ask what had brought this change of plans about, what it was that he had said or done. He wanted to ask what was wrong with him. Something not entirely like dread was clenching low in his stomach. It felt like he was in the lists, watching his opponent thunder towards him. A challenge that had to be met.  
Adhemar's eyes widened in surprise as William pushed himself up and crashed their mouths together. The kiss was hard and messy and perhaps this was what they had been about all along. Both men were breathing heavily as they broke apart.

“Yes.”

Something had shifted and it were William's fingers that tugged at the lacing of the other man's shirt. In one smooth motion Adhemar slid on top of him, thigh pressing between his legs. He was pinned with casual strength, scrutinized. Defiantly, William stared back, acutely aware of the fact that he was – that both of them were – shamefully hard.  
The kiss that was placed into the hollow of his throat was almost reverent, followed by a rough sweep of tongue. With a shudder he realized that Adhemar was licking wine off his skin. Arching his back, William moaned. Strong hands gripped his thighs, bending his legs and spreading him open. A last bite to his stomach and Adhemar pulled away, pausing briefly to retrieve something from the foot of the bed, before yanking his shirt over his head. The sound of harsh breathing filled the air.

“Tell me about fucking Jocelyn.”

Dazedly taking in the old bruises stretching down that heavily muscled chest, William wondered which of them this was meant to hurt. He had done this – his lance. William smiled.

“She came to me after a tournament. I'd won for her – I've won all of them. It was sweet. Her mouth, her hair, she-”

He faltered as slick fingers skimmed his cock, dipped between his legs to circle his hole. Blunt pressure and William's hips were jerking.

“Don't move.”

He didn't quite obey, twitching as a second finger pressed inside. It was almost too much, too alien a sensation, but Adhemar's hand closed around his cock and those fingers kept scissoring, angling, until angry pleasure kindled in William's blood. Fighting the loss of control, he tipped his head back and drew his hand up his chest.

“She rode me. You should have heard the noises she made. Jocelyn was so wet. She was insatiable, kept asking for more and more... She screamed my name when she came.”

Hearing the sharp intake of breath that followed his words, feeling those confident motions stutter to a halt, was immensely satisfying. Adhemar's eyes narrowed dangerously.

“You are enjoying this, aren't you?”

William found that he was laughing breathlessly and for one disorienting moment, he wondered what on earth he was doing. Then Adhemar was undoing his pants, cursing softly as he positioned himself. At the first thrust William barely managed to swallow a cry. His breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps even as his body adjusted to the intrusion. It wasn't an easy fit, all stretch and burn and, instinctively, William tried to squirm away. Immediately his hips were pinned, held in place as he was made to-

“Take it.” 

A low growl, bitten out like a curse, like a prayer. There were a few short seconds of reprieve and then Adhemar was shifting, pulling out almost all the way and plunging back in. This time William did scream. White-hot pleasure was licking at the edge of his mind and he arched into the other man's hand, into his body. He screwed his eyes shut. The grip around his cock tightened painfully.

“No. You are going to look at me. Because when I send you back to your little friends and they ask you what happened, I want you to remember this. The next time some girl crawls into your bed ... the next time we meet in the lists ... at some banquet ... this is what you will see. Me taking you. Me owning you...”

There was nothing to do but open his eyes. William looked at sweaty hair falling into eyes grown all but feverish, at high cheekbones and lips drawn back in a feral snarl. Pace never faltering, Adhemar pounded the body beneath his.   
And still that hand wasn't moving, wasn't giving him the friction he needed even as William twisted his hips until his back ached with the strain. He thought vaguely, spitefully, that he'd like to bite the smooth flesh where neck met shoulder. Adhemar chuckled and leaned forward, pushing him open wider still. Then his hips snapped forward.  
And finally that tormenting grip loosened and he was able to drive himself into Adhemar's palm. Hips rising into Adhemar's thrusts, William took up the rhythm and made it his own.  
It didn't take long at all. Orgasm hit William like a lance in the chest. His breath was knocked out of him and, head slamming back into the sheets, his mind blanked out.

 

William felt that he didn't really want to start thinking. He was drowsy, comfortably disoriented, and not at all ready to face the small voice that was screaming at him that something was very, very wrong.  
When he opened his eyes, reality reasserted itself in one crushing blow. Adhemar was still thrusting into him, sending aftershocks through his exhausted body. William gasped as a fresh wave of pain shot through him. Cruel fingers were digging into the half-healed wound beneath his collarbone, making his eyes fly up and his muscles clench. Adhemar stilled. A hoarse shout that, for a moment, sounded almost like William's name.

 

They eyed each other warily as they pulled apart, both men trying to hide the trembling of their limbs. William knew that he was flushing furiously, and, although he was still barely able to form a coherent thought, he knew that he had to get out. Before anything else happened. Before he did something stupid. More stupid. If that was even possible. 

William's stomach heaved as he slid off the bed. Standing was difficult, walking all but impossible. He somehow made it to his clothes, though, fist clenching into the soft linen of his shirt.

“They won't accept you. Even if I refuse the contract, Jocelyn will be married to someone else.”

Adhemar was watching him from the bed, but for the first time his sharp gaze was tinged with apprehension. Suddenly aware that his skin was sticky with his own seed, William quickly wiped his stomach. His fingers were clumsy and he didn't even try to properly fasten his clothes.   
Tearing his eyes off the bed, he stumbled towards the door. He would forget. He would go back to his friends, to his life, and never think of the things he had done tonight. At least Jocelyn was safe.

Already half outside, he turned back one last time. He couldn't stop, not even now.

“I've still got the joust. I'm still a knight. And I think your horse likes me better.”

 

The End.


End file.
